


(This is not really happening) You bet your life it is

by blcwriter



Series: Write a New Alphabet [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Stiles, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Pre-Slash, You could say I am not kind to Scott, no puppies or sunshine at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:46:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The fact is, monsters are real.”</p><p>Stiles’ hand burst into flame.</p><p> “I don’t need Molotovs."  Stiles was calm.  "I can throw fireballs, Deaton calls me a spark because apparently I’m a magic firecracker for, like, mega reals.  But it kind of takes over, and it’s too easy.  With the Molotovs, I have to make it, and throw it, and Lyds or Als has to help me carry it through, and aiming the things is a different kind of magic.”</p><p>“If I’m careful, does that make me a monster?  Or does it make me just really thoughtful about what I choose to protect?”  Stiles seemed worried.  “And if I’m not careful, and not even trying to be, or if the instinct gets hold   while something that chooses to be a monster hurts someone I love, what does that make me then?”</p><p>“You’re always welcome at training.  The wolf’s a lot to handle.  You should get a handle on things.”  He pushed a dirty hand over his forehead and turned his back on Scott, walking and then picking up into a jog toward the trees as it started to rain.  The ground smelt of ozone and growing things.  There was some name for that smell-- Stiles had told him, but he hadn’t been paying attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(This is not really happening) You bet your life it is

He’d thought he’d catch Stiles in his room, but he wasn’t there, the Jeep either. And he wasn’t answering his phone. This summer had sucked, so far, except for the parts with Isaac; two weeks in and he was always either working at Deaton’s (with Isaac, and yeah, that was awesome, but still, work) or Mom had him volunteering at the hospital because “werewolf shenanigans, I’m keeping my eye on you, mister,” and it wasn’t like Allison wanted to see him, plus Stiles was always coming in for magic lessons just as Deaton was closing up shop, so it was like, negative Stiles time and the dude just looked kind of edgy. Not happy. It was worrisome, and it had Scott’s wolf on edge, but Scott wasn’t sure what to do about it, and Stiles kept smiling and waving him off when Scott said hi, so—he wasn’t sure. Plus. 

He’d said they were fine, and yeah, they’d played catch a few times before finals and gone to the mall before Stiles skipped the dance, but then it had been like, work, Isaac, hospital, work, wave at Stiles. Every time, he'd come in reeking of Derek Hale’s pack, that and stinking of magic while intending to learn more magic for Derek Hale’s pack and ugh, just, ugh. 

Magic smelled bad. And Derek Hale was an asshole.

Now he needed to talk to Stiles and the guy wasn’t around. Or answering his phone. And he couldn’t ask Isaac if he knew where Stiles was because Isaac was kind of the thing he wanted to talk to Stiles about, and Isaac would give him that look, the one that was half bitchy and half kicked puppy and half horrified like Scott didn’t want him around any more and Scott knew none of that math added up. It hurt, that math, and he needed Stiles to help sort him out, except he couldn’t find Stiles.

He wasn’t at his summer job at the library. Mrs. Donovan gave him a glare and told him not to come back until he returned that Green Lantern DVD from last summer, and crap, Scott forgot all about that. He’d have to have Stiles drive him to the mall so he could buy a new copy—it’d be cheaper than paying the fine. 

He wasn’t at Deaton’s, because Deaton was off doing—witchy shenanigans stuff at a conference in Detroit, he’d heard Stiles laughing about the fact that it was in Detroit and then something about iron and faeries and how he guessed that made sense, though what cars and faeries had to do with each other Scott didn’t know.

His wolf grumbled at him, unhappy for not knowing where his Stiles was. His wolf had been doing that a lot lately, and he didn’t know how to make it shut up. It was only quiet when he was with Isaac or Allison or Stiles or … Derek’s pack, even Derek, and wolves. Wolves were trouble. But Stiles wasn’t a wolf and Scott’s wolf liked Stiles, and he could help figure out this problem with Isaac, so his wolf was in agreement. 

They should find Stiles. Scent him out. Ask the other wolves, too.

Ask the other wolves.

Right.

And then, duh _Scott, buddy, I love you, it’s called a cell phone, you know, in case of emergencies, leave it on,_ he could hear Stiles drawl, like, a million times, and he could feel his neck turn red because there had been lots of times, bad times, when he hadn’t, so he called Stiles. It went right to voice mail. 

He sent a mass text out, next.

He didn’t get a text back from the wolves. Allison or Lydia, either.

And then he tried Danny. By phone, because Danny was kind of not pack but pack and didn’t know about wolves but everyone figured he knew something was up, so everyone made sure to be extra polite, because Danny was (in Stiles’ words) “probably going to turn out to be our hot gay guardian angel in some episode in season four, so be nice, you assholes.” 

It was all a little meta for Scott, but he did like Danny. So he used the phone.

That went to voice mail, too, but then again, Danny had a real social life, either that or he’d hacked something and was down in LA for questioning. Again.

It’d be nice if he could just call the sheriff and say—“Gee, sir, I’m having some werewolf angst and need to ask your son for advice, could you please send out an APB and have him delivered to me, maybe even ziptied and gagged so I can get out my explanation before he starts telling me how stupid I am?” but that would require explaining werewolves, and that was the last thing Stiles wanted to do, so. No.

Feeling like a moron, he got on his bike, started pedaling, bared his teeth, and tried to concentrate on the scents.

Following his nose? Totally sucked.

\--

When he found his best friend, Scott was sweating, hot even for a wolf, and it took him a couple of minutes just straddling his bike to figure out what he was seeing. And then he just kind of stood there. Because, seriously?

Stiles was—throwing Molotov cocktails that Lydia and Allison were hitting with flaming arrows and the rest of Derek’s pack were trying to dodge while Stiles did something—magic and wavy with his hands that magicked the _freaking flaming flying arrow-filled bombs of fiery death_ to track and follow the wolves.

Everyone was laughing their asses off when the Molotovs punked out short of the wolves they were aimed at and each wolf flopped down, exhausted and hooting before Stiles hollered out the next target’s name and they bounced up, waiting to be shot at by fiery bombs of chemical death. Bombs. Multiple. Because did he mention that Stiles was throwing three or four of these things for Lydia and Allison to shoot and then Stiles to turn into—magical homing killer golden snitches?

After Jackson flopped down in the dirt, howling a satisfied smile to the air, only then did Stiles turn around, even though Scott had called Stiles’ name, like, a half-dozen times and he was sure all the wolves heard him. It hadn’t stopped them from their stupid training though.

Boyd and Erica were sitting, leaning on one another, and Lydia’d jogged (jogged!) over to Jackson with some Powerade in her hands. Allison was methodically packing the bows in their cases, twirling closed the combinations, locking them back in her car.

“We’re doing tracking next,” Stiles said, and Boyd and Allison both seemed to perk up at that announcement even as Stiles tucked his hands in his pockets, tipped his head as he regarded Scott. “Are you rabbits or hounds?” The rest of the group was already calling their turns.

He understood Stiles’ question, that it was aimed at him—fine, right, tracking could be solo or group, and prey groups were rabbits, predators hounds, Allison said hunters called it that too, it wasn’t some kind of dog joke, and he’d forgotten Tuesdays and Thursdays were training, but why was Stiles here, anyway, why hadn’t he answered his phone?

“Neither. I need to talk to you,” he said, because now that he thought about it, it had been almost almost a month and a half since the warehouse, shit, had it really been that long?

Stiles looked up at the late afternoon sun, turned to look at the group, looked out over the treeline surrounding the bare-earth clearing where they’d been playing with fire. 

“Well, it’s an elaborate course Lyds set up, and then it’ll be time for dinner, and then I’ve got to pick my Dad up at the station, so. Come by the library on your lunch?”

Tomorrow?

He wasn't exactly sure how it happened, except that he had Stiles by the scruff of his shirt and he could feel his fangs extending, his claws curling into the fabric. 

“I need to talk to you now,” he was snarling, but then he was on the ground, sneezing, Stiles standing above and saying in a voice Scott had never heard before, “Down, Scott,” and Scott’s wolf _obeyed_.

He sneezed again even as the claws and fangs retracted, fur receded.

“Did you just wolfsbane me?”

Stiles nodded. He wore that weird, calm expression that always kinds of freaked Scott out more than a bit. Stiles would kind of make an excellent Dexter.

“You wolfed out on me. You’re damned right I did. It’s a mild form. Tickles and makes you dizzy. Non-toxic. The werewolf equivalent of a bat on the nose with a paper.”

“No, the newspaper is the power voice, almost as bad as Derek,” Boyd piped up.

Scott’s wolf had never liked Boyd, because Boyd so clearly wanted to be everyone’s favorite fierce good doobie wolf, and Scott had never been any good at being a suck-up. It was the same reason he always hated Jackson. His wolf whine-growled again, even as he told the damned thing to shut up because he needed to talk to Stiles, damnit.

“Down,” Stiles barked as Scott growled, and there-- there was that tone that had the wolf curling up. Stiles took a step back, swiveled his head, turned his back halfway to Scott as he looked as the group. 

Scott’s wolf rumbled, confused.

“A little privacy, please? Lyds, Als, you rabbit without me, I’ll meet you all back for dinner.”

“Howl if you need us,” Jackson said, and it wasn't sarcastic sounding at all. 

Stiles snorted, and it sounded like he wasn't so much amused as-- touched-- by Jackson’s joke, like maybe it hadn't been a joke at all. He didn't sound annoyed, but then again, the rest of the group had all been sitting off to the side, just kind of waiting (and listening in, wolf hearing sucked) like they hadn't all been sharing a lunch table most of the time a few weeks ago. even if there was more barking and snarling than banter and smiles. It was weird. When had things changed? When did Stiles get to be friends with Jackson? The last time he’d seen him, the dude had been growling at all of them and holding on to Lydia like she was the only thing in the world. 

When the group of them had gone off, Stiles took a step back, then another. He didn’t offer Scott a hand up from the ground, and when Scott rolled up and stood (that powder was still making him dizzy) Stiles took another couple steps back, his hands going back in his pockets. His wolf whined, because he didn't like that his Stiles was backing away from him, like Scott was some predator to be wary of. Scott wasn't a danger, Stiles shouldn't think that.

Scott inhaled because usually Stiles' fear was right out there, but his nose was confused. Stiles’ scent, the pack's, the lingering scent of Derek in general, like he spent time on these training grounds, not just with all the people here and with Stiles, lots of different emotions from all the different wolves, anger, resentment, joy, arousal, friendship, concern-- he couldn't smell fear. Just anger and worry and something weird he couldn't place. He couldn’t smell, either, if Stiles had more of that wolfsbane stuff in his pockets or any other weird magical powders, and speaking of magic.

“What were you doing there, with your hands? Making those things? Go after them?”

Stiles shrugged. “I was thinking killer flaming golden snitches of doom, mostly, though really, it’s bludgers, right, the ones the beaters have to beat off that come after you, I’ve got to re-read the books, there’s got to be tons of good stuff in there to work from, plus, that whole thing about the hand-waving, I know it’s like, amateur hour, but you didn’t come out here to train or talk about hey, wow, Stiles is magic! because you’ve skipped all the other sessions.”

Just like Stiles. Two minutes of babble it was going to take Scott a week to process (well, he knew Stiles had magic, generally, just not the specifics) and yet Stiles could still narrow it down to the problem and somehow make Scott feel like a dumbass. Which he shouldn’t. He’s had. Stuff. Lots of stuff.

“Derek took Isaac to the lawyer today to talk about formalizing guardianship, the court hearing’s next month, it’s just.” Stiles’ face had that—I’m waiting—expression that he always had, and it all just came spilling out. How he thought Isaac should be living with them. How Derek was still an asshole. How his Mom was awesome and Isaac was awesome and Derek was none of those things and there was no way Isaac could ever want someone like Derek to have control over him, after all, Isaac’s father was a bully and an asshole and…

He went on. For a while. And Stiles didn’t interrupt once. And when Scott finally ran out of steam, Stiles asked him—“Can your mom afford to have Isaac live with you guys full time even if the state pays you guys foster care?”

That wasn’t the point. He said so. He was about to get to the part where Stiles and Stiles' dad would be good guardians instead, too, but Stiles interrupted, looking at him like Scott was the dumbest thing ever.

“Can you and your mom and Isaac working at the vet’s and the hospital all afford to clothe and feed two growing werewolves assuming the state gives you foster care money for the year and a half Isaac’s under eighteen?” He just crossed his arms and stared at Scott. Clearly Scott had entered the bring Stiles a stupid problem and get asked the same questions until he actually found out a solution or skulked off because Stiles was an asshole zone.

“Derek can give us money. He bit Isaac.”

“Did you ever ask Isaac what he wants?” There was that weird acrid smell wafting off Stiles that Scott couldn’t identify—his wolf growled, uneasy. “How about your mom? I mean, I know she doesn’t mind Isaac staying over, but what did she say when you proposed that she get another son?”

That acrid scent got sharper. “She’ll want him to be happy.”

“That’s a hypothetical statement. You haven’t asked her.” Stiles’ tone was flat. Scott was about to answer when Stiles took a few steps forward and for the first time, touched Scott. Grabbed him by the shoulders. 

“For the love of all that is wolfy, listen to me. Sniff me up, listen to my heartbeat, figure out if I am lying to you.” His heart was beating loud and steady, and he smelt like Stiles—burnt sugar and hay—and angry, like smoldering wood. “Isaac wants Derek to be his guardian. Derek wants to be Isaac’s guardian. I have talked to both of them about this.”

His ears were bright red, his cheeks too, like something about that conversation had made Stiles really upset. He swallowed, his eyes right on Scott’s as he went on. “Dude. They are both trying really hard not to be little boy losts at each other, or repeat the whole broken man-child who only knows how to growl or whimper thing. They’re seeing a fucking were therapist in Berkeley, and yes, Virginia, there is such a thing. Derek Hale can afford to take care of Isaac, including food and clothes and college, because Kate Argent’s actions left him with so much insurance settlement money that he’ll never spend on himself. Ever, because he won’t allow himself to have nice things.”

Stiles heart did this weird panicky lurch, but it wasn’t a lie. He kept going, though, and Scott wanted to interrupt, but something kept him from…. "But Isaac is someone he can help, someone almost as fucked up as he is, and your Mom is fully on board with Derek being the man who’s in Isaac’s life, because she agrees that while she’s a good person to help be around for Isaac, the fact that the two of you are dancing around whether you’re wolf-bros or no homo or something else that’s clingy and unhealthy but still necessary for now, the fact is, you both need to get in touch with your wolves and figure out who you are. And you, Scott, you need someone who clearly needs you.” The acrid scent got so strong he sneezed as Stiles said that last bit, but his heart remained steady.

“But Derek’s an asshole. And I need you.”

He knew he was whining. He knew from the Argent bestiary that there was no cure. That was why there were hunters, after all. But. Derek had lied to him.

Stiles shrugged, and his mouth did this weird thing. “You lied to me during the kanima thing instead of trusting me about a threat to your mom, who I would protect like I would protect like my own father, and as a result… Derek and I almost drowned, Allison’s mom is dead and Gerard Argent beat the shit out of me in his basement to send a message to Derek Hale. Not you, because he already knew you either knew I was down there or didn’t give a shit one way or the other so long as your mom was okay, but to Derek Hale, because he wanted Derek’s bite, not yours, Scott, Derek’s, so please, Scott, tell me you’re doing the math about assholeishness versus real threats, and I want you to know something.”

His hands on Scott’s shirt were shaking, and he stank of ozone. What did ozone mean?

“If it had been me. If it had been my father he threatened. I would have told you. And Derek. And the whole pack, because I would have understood that working together is always, always, preferable to going solo. No matter who you think is an asshole.” His hands were still shaking. “That freakshow beat the shit out of me, he fucked with Allison’s head, made her think Derek killed her Mom when it was Victoria’s fault because she nearly killed _you_. Derek, that asshole, saved you from Victoria. Gerard nearly got Boyd and Erica killed, shocking the shit out of them until they ran like bunnies right into the alphas’ arms. Boyd was shredded. And you didn’t come. Not in the basement. Not in the tunnels. Not when I called you on the phone. Not when I _howled_.” His voice cracked, and he howled, that same stupid _arooooooo_ they’d agreed back when it was just the two of them, Scott’s pack, that that would actually be their bat signal. 

If Scott could grow a tail, he’d have tucked it right now. Especially because there was an immediate response from three wolves not far from here, and then—the always chilling howl of an alpha, further off, and then another wolf—Isaac?—and—Peter? 

He shook himself as Stiles howled an all clear and a series of yips answered, Derek’s the loudest, even the furthest away.

Stiles let go of Scott’s shoulders, his erractic heartbeat calming as he wrapped his arms around himself, took a step back from Scott. He swallowed again. 

“And then. At the field. You said you had no one. Because you didn’t have your girlfriend or lacrosse. I had to remind you that you had me. I’m not saying I don’t understand why you did it. I’m not saying that what you did wasn’t smart, because dude, I’m putting that capsule trick in the books but. Party foul. Friendship foul. Pack foul on the deception and the distrust, especially if I was supposed to be your pack. You needed me when you felt like it. And when I needed you and it wasn’t convenient, well, it wasn’t convenient. I don’t care what you call that, Scott, but it’s not friendship or family or pack or a fucking Shakesperean rose, either, if we’re having our dramatic moment right now.”

That anger smell was intense now, but worse was this smell like a bruise, and that—that was hurt, emotional hurt, and Stiles didn’t understand, Scott just had to explain…

He started to pull Stiles into a hug, and Stiles put a hand up to stop him, smoothed a hand over his shirt. Stepped away.

“Shut up. I. You literally don’t have anything useful to say right now, and yeah. I’m being an asshole using my mojo. Get your head out of your ass and think about this and maybe in a couple of weeks we can talk.” The words were as much a command as an alpha’s, and his wolf whined at the magic.

Stiles pasted on a smile, and it was awful, because he could head Stiles’ heart beating panicky-quick, but somehow he knew that Stiles was afraid because of Scott and if he tried to hug him like he used to (when was the last time he’d hugged Stiles? It had been a long time since Stiles had had a panic attack, shit…) Stiles’ voice would break from the falsely calm tone and the fake smile he had on right now, and that was somehow going to be worse than just sucking it up.

“You need to figure out for yourself I’m telling the truth. Go ask Isaac what he wants to do. Go ask Derek why he wants to help Isaac. Try not to get in a fight with him because I’m not patching you up if he bites you. Talk to the rest of the pack. Talk to Allison. Your Mom. My Dad, even. He knows, now. And for the love of Loki, Scott, try and remember. We’re all teenagers. Every single fucking one of us is an asshole. Remember? We falsely accused Derek Hale of murdering his sister right at the start of this all. I was fucking jealous of your girlfriend for a long time. I still won’t make Isaac’s favorite things for pack supper, and it’s not his fault you’re a mixed up jackass who … I don’t know, want me to be your dad when it’s convenient and come save your bacon and stay out of your way the rest of the time because I’m a spaz and you don’t want me to tell you what to do, I don’t know, I just flail along sometimes trying to guess what’s in your head and hope for the best.”

It was then that some of Stiles’ words registered. “Was supposed to be your pack?” That hollow place when his dad left—stupid, his dad was an asshole, always had been—hadn’t been hollow for a long time—but Stiles rubbed his forehead, stubbed his toe in the dirt, and that place felt empty, emptier, because his wolf knew. Stiles didn’t need him anymore.

“Dude. Even you were there for those rants about alphas never abandoning any part of their pack.”

What came out of his mouth was—“But you’re a human! It’s not the same!”—not what he’d meant to say. He didn’t know what he’d meant to say, because the whole pack idea was mostly just—he didn’t need Derek because he had Stiles, but apparently, that meant something different to Stiles and Derek than Scott, something more wolfy than human, and where Stiles got off understanding more about were stuff when he didn’t have to deal with the moon pulling him out of his bed and making him want to do kinky shit with his girlfriend…

Stiles was smiling at him, this painful grimace. “Gerard Argent was human when he beat the shit out of me. Kate Argent was human when she burnt Derek’s family. Matt was psychotic, but… human. Supernaturals do not have the corner on the monster and asshole communities, Scott. And while not everyone has a choice about whether they become a monster or not—and I would never call you a monster, because you are not, and you don’t need to tell me you never wanted the bite—but the fact is, monsters are real.”

Stiles’ hand suddenly burst into flame, shaking, that ozone stench now clear—it was magic. He looked only mildly surprised.

“I don’t need Molotovs,” he said calmly. “I can throw fireballs, Deaton calls me a spark because apparently I’m just a magic firecracker for, like mega reals. But if I do it, it kind of takes over, the instinct, and I’ll pass out for hours, and I can’t throw as many, and it’s too easy in some ways. With the Molotovs, I have to make it, and throw it, and Lyds or Als has to hit it and help me carry it through, and aiming the things is a different kind of magic that’s not so… easy or instinctive. I have to be very, very conscious and careful about who I try to kill, Scott.”

He tossed a fireball up in the air—it burned white and clear, and far off, he heard first Jackson, then Boyd and Erica howl. Approval. Lydia and Allison’s human calls were fainter—but they were whooping "badass!" as well. Stiles might not be able to hear them-- he was still grimacing, that hand that was directing that ball of fire that Scott's wolf wanted him to back the fuck away from shaking, like Stiles was coming off one of his Adderall highs and was going to crash, hard.

“If I’m really careful, does that make me a monster, even if I’m human? Or does it make me just really thoughtful about the people and places I choose to protect?” Stiles’ question seemed—genuinely worried. And his eyes burnt gold, like something was lit up behind them. “And if I’m not careful, and not even trying to be, or if the instinct gets a hold of me while something that chooses to be a monster hurts someone I love, what does that make me then?”

The skies boiled dark over them both, and the fireball Stiles held in front of them flattened somehow. He crouched, knelt, and the magic followed, until it was hovering over the bare earth—and then Stiles pushed it, grunting, into the dirt. The clouds opened, a wolf howled somewhere as lightning cracked off in the trees, and Stiles pushed up from the ground, looking tired. 

“You’re always welcome at training. The wolf’s a lot to handle. You should get a handle on things.” He pushed a dirty hand over his forehead and turned his back on Scott, walking and then picking up into a jog toward the trees as it started to rain. The dry earth smelt of ozone and green growing things (there was some name for that smell, something, Stiles had told him once, but he hadn’t been paying attention, Stiles always talked so much and a lot of it was just not that important), and then—there were green growing things, grass and herbs and weeds of all kinds, sprouting and growing in a riot around Scott’s ankles, twining around Scott’s knees and rippling away from Stiles as he ran—ran faster than Stiles had run ever before.

His wolf knew that Stiles was running toward his pack, and not away from Scott, because with magic like that, Scott posed no threat. But it was Stiles turning his back on Scott. In some kind of metaphorical way. Walking away from something, and Scott didn't know what it was. Maybe Stiles did. Maybe he'd explained, or tried to. It didn't make any sense, though, and the rain didn't wash away any confusion. It just made him cold.

He was soaked to the skin and his bike half grown over with something Deaton called rue, and used to deliver stillborns at the clinic. He wondered what else rue did. Stiles would know. But he couldn’t really ask him, he guessed.

Damnit. 

He’d just been trying to do the right thing.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there's a lot of worry in fandom about Scott bashing because of his race, being the star of the show and issues of ableism/intelligence snobbery--the list does go on-- and I'm trying to make this even-handed here, because Stiles does know why Scott acted like he did here, and Scott does care for Stiles, even if he tends to focus a lot on the trees and not on the forest. The fact still remains, though, that the end of s2 leaves us with a lot of Scott issues, and Stiles pretty isolated (but then again, so is the whole pack, even if one could argue Stiles has sort of turned into the linchpin), so I sort of felt like it was important to set these two on a path if not right towards BFFery again, then toward a place of being more thoughtful.
> 
> Stiles does take some blame here, and he's not shutting Scott out completely-- but I think that both of them still have a lot to work out, and friends as old as they are have lots of bad habits to break; that won't get solved in one fic. And I don't believe either of them are perfect-- or sees themselves the way the other sees them, which I hope came across a bit.


End file.
